


Eyes Without A Face

by alyxpoe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Bisexual Character, Established Relationship, Multi, The Yellow Face, a smidgeon of jealous!Sherlock, men kissing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-02-27 06:39:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2682968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only, there isn’t any wind. Well, now, that seriously changes things, doesn’t it? Slowly, he turns around to face the cottage. The front of the little house has been overtaken by ivy very similar to that carved on the bench. Recently, however, some of it has been cut back so it doesn’t hang over the windows. Which, in this case, is really a bad thing because when Grant gets an eyeful of the thing that is making the odd noise, he screams and takes off running in the direction of his house.<br/>Barefoot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).



> Also: yes, I went there.  
> Gifted to AtlinMerrick because her version of our boys inspired this one ;)

“A mask tells us more than a face.”

-Oscar Wilde

~~~

"The eye sees only what the mind is prepared to comprehend."

-Henri Bergson

~~~

“People felt themselves watching him even before they knew that there was anything different about him. His eyes made a person think that he heard things that no one else had ever heard, that he knew things no one had ever guessed before. He did not seem quite human.”

-Carson McCullers, _The Heart is a Lonely Hunter_

**One**

Grant Monroe-Trevor does not consider himself to be a gambling man. He is not the type to take chances, especially when it comes to his hard-earned money. Grant thinks of himself as a stand-up type of person, a realist, someone who always looks for the facts in a world of opinions. He frowns at the computer screen in front of him, disbelieving the glaring facts that are right in his face in plain black and white.

Could the numbers be lying?

Grant’s largest gamble to date has been a whirlwind romance six months ago that resulted in him marrying the man he thinks of as his very best friend and more, Victor Trevor-Monroe. As far as gambling goes, he believes that this very singular action taken by himself has resulted in a landslide of winnings: a wonderful partner who is attentive without being overbearing, certainly attractive with a winning personality, someone who is satisfied to accept Grant as himself and has never tried to change him. Grant appreciates people like this, people who, like himself, tend to lean towards the factual things in life rather than the hyped-up opinions of others.

Grant thinks about these things as he logs out of his computer after staring long and hard at their joint bank account for well over an hour. It’s a good thing he owns the company, because he sure would not appreciate one of his employees faffing about this way. Everything has its place here and he always considers and reconsiders every single decision that he makes.

Surely there’s been a mistake. Surely Victor did not actually go into the bank and take seventy-five thousand pounds out of their account in cold, hard cash. Grant smiles a little to himself at the Americanism, one of the items on a very long list of things about Victor that he absolutely adores.

He taps his fingernails on his desk before he lifts his right index finger to his lips and begins worrying the cuticle with his teeth. It is a terrible habit, a holdover from childhood he was sure he’d left behind. With a single, swift yank of his teeth he’s got the tender skin bleeding.

“Damn,” Grant mutters as he pinches the tiny wound closed. He sighs. There’s nothing else for it, he’s got to find out for himself. Taking his mobile out of his pocket, he checks the time; although it is almost an hour earlier than he usually runs, he should be able to make a train and maybe even be ahead of the crowd for a change.

Idly, he rubs at his stomach in a useless attempt to calm the butterflies that seem to be breeding rapidly there. Surely there’s been a mistake. He’s read all the articles about cons who marry those with healthy bank account and then, wham! One day the mark finds he’s been cleaned out of house and home. And nest egg, too, Grant pointlessly adds in his mind. Or, maybe someone stole Victor’s identity. According to Victor, that kind of thing happens in America quite a bit. He flicks the lights off, grabs his briefcase and coat, says goodnight to his secretary, Gretchen, and heads out into the mid-afternoon sunlight, hoping to make the train in time.

 

Grant decides to walk up the lane from the main road to his house, as he’s always felt that he doesn’t get enough exercise spending so much time behind a desk. He pays the cabbie and the taxi pulls away, leaving him alone except for the twittering birds overhead. A few old trees stand at attention to his right and he studies them for a moment without really seeing them. Every leaf looks like a paper bill with a pound sign on it. He debates on walking straight home or taking his time.

After all, it is a pretty day, so why waste it? Perhaps a bit of leg stretching will do his mind some good. Besides, there’s no use in being in any hurry to get to his house since there’s a fifty-fifty chance he’s going to open the door and find it empty. Seventy-five thousand quid is quite a lot to be going on with, and surely enough to hire some movers that work efficiently. Grant looks at his phone, yep, seeing that he cut an hour out of his day, there’s no reason decent movers can’t empty out a three-bedroom cottage in a matter of three or four hours.

Grant takes a deep breath, letting the clean country air into his lungs. He loves it out here, has always done: it is relatively quiet most days and they only have two neighbors besides the B and B. To his left the lane splits off into a more narrow drive that circles around another cottage that’s currently empty. He stops at the split and considers going the long way round to his house, then shrugs out of his coat and hangs it over his arm. Might as well enjoy what little bit of happiness still remains to him, he thinks, as he turns to go past a field just beginning to sprout whatever the farmer planted this year.

As he walks, Grant considers the money a little more. Could there be a positive side to this? Well, actually, yes, there could be. Quite possibly Victor decided to do something for Grant’s birthday, but that isn’t for months, really, an age away. Maybe he put down some sort of deposit on a chalet or some other such thing? Granted, their closest neighbor is a small B and B, but Grant can see the allure of leaving home for a little while.

After a few minutes, Grant’s feet begin to ache. It’s beginning to dawn on him that walking the gravel lane in his Oxfords was probably a bad idea. There is a small bench in the yard in front of the empty cottage, so he aims straight for it, fully intending on taking his shoes off for a few moments to let his aching feet rest. He’s at the half-way point now, anyway, so there is no use in turning back, because that would be a waste of time.

Grant settles on the wooden bench, letting his hands brush over the smooth wood and admiring the handiwork that went into the carved ivy, every long piece of it entwined with the next across the back of the bench. Idly, he wonders if it originally came from the Bed and Breakfast. He’ll have to ask Kevin, the owner, the next time he sees him.

Grant pulls off his shoes and stretches his pale feet. If Victor really is planning some sort of surprise getaway, he hopes it will be to somewhere sunny. He’s starting to look like a ghost.

A loud scratching noise forces his thoughts to a halt. He listens closely, waiting to hear it again. When he does, he thinks that it could be the sound of something metal being dragged over a wooden floor, then there’s a banging against a window. Maybe just a tree branch swaying in the wind…

Only, there isn’t any wind. Well, now, that seriously changes things, doesn’t it? Slowly, he turns around to face the cottage. The front of the little house has been overtaken by ivy very similar to that carved on the bench. Recently, however, some of it has been cut back so it doesn’t hang over the windows. Which, in this case, is really a bad thing because when Grant gets an eyeful of the thing that is making the odd noise, he screams and takes off running in the direction of his house.

Barefoot.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In between long strides that eat up the pavement, Sherlock takes a deep breath, “I miss cigarettes.”  
> “No you don’t,” John quips, opening the red door to their favorite Chinese takeout place.  
> Sherlock cocks his head at him, sketches out a pretend bow and steps into the restaurant. “Yes you do.”

**Two**

“Sherlock, get up!”

Sherlock remains where he is, prone on his back on his sofa, long legs and bare feet hanging over the arm opposite the one his head rests on. He grunts because it is late afternoon and he’s been in the same position for several hours. His back is actually quite stiff and his rear end is numb; not that he’d ever let John in on that fact.

John hears ‘bored’ loud and clear in that ridiculous sound. He rolls his eyes and nudges Sherlock’s foot with his hand.

“Get up.”

Sherlock sighs, cracks one eye and even rolls it. “No, John,” he drawls.

John scowls and walks away. The next thing Sherlock knows is that he has a lapful of coat and shoes, a pair of white tube socks stuffed down into them.

“No.” Sherlock scoffs, holding the ancient pair of trainers out away from his body the same way he’d do a rabid Yorkie.

“Well, you aren’t going to get dressed and your normal posh footwear would look positively ridiculous with those.” John points at Sherlock’s cotton sleep wear, copying Sherlock’s patented ‘eyebrow raise’ because he can.

Well, Sherlock considers, he has to concede that one. Current score for Making Sherlock Go Outside and Get Fresh Air For A Bit: Sherlock, zip, John, one. Sherlock lets out another long-suffering sigh and yanks the socks over his feet, glaring at them when they fit because it completely ruins that built-in excuse.

“Oh give it up you posh git. Millions of people wear those socks, they’ll keep your feet warm and dry whilst you frolic through the fresh fields of new grass.” John smirks, watching Sherlock wrinkle his nose at the six-pairs-for-five-pounds socks. John has been saving those for just such an occasion as this. Doesn’t hurt the consulting git to come down from his high horse once in a while. Besides, John’s no fool, he knows full well what’s going to happen to the rest of the pack, and really Sherlock doing experiments on socks is always better than a bored Sherlock. Bored Sherlocks can be dangerous to walls. And the sanity of John Watsons.

Of course, John understands Sherlock’s particular brand of _ennui_ , no problem; it’s only that he learned early on how to combat it in ways that don’t have to involve a violin screeching as if it is a victim of vivisection, nor resulting in not being able to walk properly for three days. Not that he’s complaining about _that_ one, since he was almost rendered blind at mute at the same time. Having Sherlock Holmes as…well, as his _everything_ is certainly not for the faint of heart.

Neither is making the man go out into the sunshine for a little while, either. “Nope! No you don’t, Sherlock!” John grabs the detective’s shoulders and hauls him into a sitting position as he starts to dramatically swoon backwards again, shoving hard on his back to force him to his feet.

Sherlock makes an attempt to stare him down, green eyes flashing beneath a mop of frizzy curls as he pulls on his coat then sulkily shoves his hands into the pockets.

It doesn’t work. John only ends up laughing at his favorite over-grown ten-year old. He tugs on Sherlock’s coat sleeve, secretly relieved that he hasn’t had to resort to anything drastic, like the time he stretched himself over the kitchen table completely wearing nothing but a bowl of curry and a smile the week Sherlock decided that even a single calorie would slow down his brain so much he’d be unable to think at all.

John shakes his head at the memory of washing curry out of interesting places later that night then pushes up on his toes and places an off-center kiss on Sherlock’s mouth.

It’s the off-center-ness that makes Sherlock a tiny bit crazy so he retaliates by cupping the back of John’s skull with one hand, effectively holding him in place in order to begin kissing the daylights out of him. The little devil that lives on John’s left shoulder smirks and pumps his fist in the air, while the little angel on his right shoulder whispers _you know you can’t let him win this one_. John agrees with her.

“Oh no, you aren’t getting out of it that easily,” John playfully swats at Sherlock’s lovely behind as he half-drags Sherlock to the door, only noticing the cocky smirk playing over his lips as he turns to close the door behind them.

As they prance down the stairs, Sherlock grins over John’s head and decides that he wants to see just how wild he can drive his lover before John relents and lets them come home. At least he’s no longer bored.

 

They cruise about town for a couple of hours, hands brushing here and there as they walk. Sometimes they are stopped by one of the Homeless Network or even some fan of John’s blog seeking autographs and the annoyingly-named ‘selfies,’ but for the most part the people of London leave them alone. There’s a bit of smiling from acquaintances and a wave here and there; as always, though, they remain in their own little bubble of John-and-Sherlock. It’s relaxing to John, and Sherlock likes a relaxed John, so the whole thing works.

In between long strides that eat up the pavement, Sherlock takes a deep breath, “I miss cigarettes.”

“No you don’t,” John quips, opening the red door to their favorite Chinese takeout place.

Sherlock cocks his head at him, sketches out a pretend bow and steps into the restaurant. “Yes you do.”

John can’t hide the flush of embarrassment painting his face as he stops in front of the cashier. That was one thing he’d so far believed he’d managed to keep from Sherlock. He’d succeeded in breaking the habit while in hospital recovering from the bullet wound in his shoulder and never once looked back. Though he’d never admit it, it was part of the reason he refused to let Sherlock smoke in the flat: temptation with a capital ‘T.’

Of course, their outing today has been an absolute study in temptation, because Sherlock keeps draping himself provocatively over every single inanimate object he’s found since leaving Baker Street. John’s not stupid, not by any means, but he is a man and his libido has been seriously kicked up into high gear this afternoon due in no small part to Sherlock’s antics.

Well, at least he’s not bored, John thinks, picking up their order. He turns to ask Sherlock if he’s ready to leave and almost has a heart attack.

Sherlock has dropped into one of the chairs at the only table in the place, his legs wide open and head thrown back. His coat is pulled back enough that there’s absolutely no doubt left as to how he’s feeling at the moment. John thanks his lucky stars that no one else has walked in since they’ve been here. Sherlock’s hand is moving in a straight line to his crotch and there’s no way John’s going to get thrown out of yet another restaurant. Besides, they make the best bean buns at this one.

“Sherlock!” John hisses.

Sherlock raises his head slowly, come-fuck-me-eyes half lidded and the bastard has the audacity to lick his lips. “Yes, John?” he asks innocently, his deep baritone proving the lie.

The little bell on the top of the door rings merrily and the back of John’s neck breaks out in a cold sweat. “Sherlock,” John says to the gold Lucky Cat on the counter. It smiles back without helping at all.

Sherlock takes one last lick and stands up, hiding the evidence and instantly dropping the sexy minx persona. John clenches his jaw and breathes through his nose just as a young mother with three tots in tow passes him, all three children looking right at Sherlock. He smiles at them, all honey and light.

John seriously wants to strangle him. Or kiss him. Either way is good.

“I can’t take you anywhere,” he complains as they head back towards the flat.

“Yes, you can. I’ve even got a list of places…” Sherlock begins, his deep voice creeping into I-have-a-hypothesis-territory.

“No, Sherlock, just no,” John says as he unlocks the door, ignoring the _where we might not get caught_ left off the end of Sherlock’s statement. He remembers saying once, so long ago, as a throw-away quip that _sex with Sherlock is going to kill me_. Those words haven’t yet turned prophetic, but who knows what the future holds?

“You’re always saying I should get out more…” Sherlock’s voice abruptly stops, the jocular mood between them instantly drying up into something serious. He curls long fingers around John’s bicep to still him, then points at the steps. “Someone’s up there.”

John nods, tucking the bag of takeaway against his chest and regretting the fact he’d left his gun upstairs. Upstairs, where there was now some stranger.

Sherlock bends towards the steps now, reaching out with one finger to pick up a trace of something John cannot yet see. The detective holds his hand up to the light, allowing John to make out what could be a broken, trampled piece of grass or perhaps a leaf from some plant…

“Tobacco.” Sherlock states knowingly.

John nods, acquiescing to the detective’s knowledge and waiting for the all-clear.

“Client! Come on, John!” Sherlock flies up the stairs, trainers not making the loud thumps against the old wood that his other shoes usually do and leaving John and the bag of dinner along with thoughts of what was to come _after_ they finished said dinner at the bottom of the steps.

John sighs, smiles a little to himself and makes his way up to their flat.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We will take your case, Mr. Monroe, mostly because I am bored to death and John expects me to get fresh air and it sounds intriguing.”

**Three**

Grant Monroe-Trevor paces the entirety of the sitting room of the flat, his hands nervously fluttering in the air for a moment only to be stuffed into his jacket pockets. He is visibly limping as if he’s got blisters on his feet, though his shoes appear to be newish, they show signs of being well-worn. At some point during his rather convoluted story, he produces an old pipe, fiddles with it then returns it to the front right pocket of his trousers.

John tilts his head towards Sherlock in acknowledgement. Sherlock smirks smugly.

“Mr. Monroe, could you get on with it?” Sherlock demands. John glares. Sherlock adds “Please.”

Grant continues to pace, now quiet silent. John, clearly seeing that Sherlock is about three-tenths of a second from throwing their client bodily out the door stands up from his chair and asks if they would like tea. He picks up the still-warm bag of takeaway to forlornly drop it on the kitchen table. Muttering to himself about detectives who refuse to put on decent clothing _or underclothing for that matter_ while he fixes up three mugs of tea, John returns to the sitting room to find Sherlock once-again sprawled in his chair, thank God he’s still wearing his coat because good lord, John is not _blind_ and their client in John’s chair seeming for all the world like he’s had the air punched out of him.

“What did you do?” John asks, handing out the steaming beverages.

Sherlock opens his mouth. John raises his hand, “You know what, never mind.”

Sherlock’s mouth closes.

“Mr. Monroe-Trevor,” John starts.

“Grant, please call me Grant,” the client informs him, sipping carefully at his tea.

“Alright then, Grant, so far you’ve told us that your husband withdrew quite a bit of cash,” here John fails to suppress a shudder at the amount that Grant’s been so casually talking about, “from your joint account. Apparently some of that money is his?”

Grant, much more centered now than he was before, looks up from his cup to where John has perched himself on the edge of Sherlock’s desk. Sherlock takes advantage of Grant’s lack of attention and starts to pull his coat off. John, managing to keep a straight face, points at Sherlock around his mug _don’t you dare._ Once again, Sherlock smirks, enjoying this game. John tunes back into their client, who has been completely oblivious to any of the unspoken conversation.

“…so, yes, he does have every right to the money. It is just strange because in all this time, he’s never so much as hinted as needing to touch any of it. It was his idea to ‘combine all our assets’ as it were.” Grant punctuates his sentence by taking a rather noisy draught of his tea.

Sherlock frowns at the man. “In summation, _Grant_ , you are complaining about your husband taking money that belongs to him out of a joint bank account?”

John can already see the boredom hamster beginning its trek around the wheels in Sherlock’s mind. Well, so far, Grant hasn’t really given them anything useful and Sherlock hates domestics.

“Grant, I am sure there’s a logical explanation…” John tries.

“Have you simply asked your husband about the money?” Sherlock asks at the same time.

They look at each other. Sherlock steeples his fingers and leans forward. John shrugs, _your way then._

Grant’s mouth turns downward almost comically, but the man looks quite crushed, feeling the dismissal coming on. He shakes his head. “It isn’t just the money, Mr. Holmes, you understand. It’s just that I _know_ something is wrong.”

John wants to tell their client that whimpering will get you nowhere with the detective, but the man barrels ahead.

“Look, it has been a horrible, horrible day. All I wanted to do was unwind a little before I got home and had to face…whatever was going to be waiting on me, understand?”

No one answers, so he keeps talking. “I stopped outside the empty cottage and there was these…”

“Were,” Sherlock interrupts.

Grant frowns a bit, not quite derailed and a bit unsure. “Anyway, there were these noises coming from the place and then, then I saw _it._ ”

Curious, John shifts his weight on the desk. From this angle he can smell the food in the kitchen and he silently hopes it’s still warm when they get to it. Sherlock sees John’s eyes and knows his partner is hungry.

“You have five seconds to ‘wow’ me Mr. Monroe.”

Grant looks pained and his face flushes. “There was this face…” he says softly as if the word is akin to a toothache.

“A face?”

 _Here it comes_ , thinks John. Sherlock grips the arms of his chair and makes to stand up.

“No, no, not really a face, not as such. Just a pair of _eyes_. There were eyes, floating eyes and the scraping noises and there was no wind, Mr. Holmes, no wind!”

John decides to watch and see what happens next. If he’s got to be hungry, at least he can be entertained. Naturally, Sherlock has to do the thing John least expects.

The detective sits back down.

Now it’s John’s turn to frown.

Sherlock answers him with a smirk and an arched eyebrow. John thinks that it is not fair that someone’s face can do so many things at the same time and still look like _that_. He sighs, being well versed in the subtle cues of _the game is afoot_.

That thought leads John to actually look down at Grant’s feet. His socks have slipped down a little as if they’ve been pulled off and back on more than once today. He also notes that they do not match the suit that Grant is wearing: his trousers are navy blue, his shirt light blue, and his jacket the same shade as the trousers. His socks, however, are quite different, being a mint green paisley.

Grant finally notices John looking at his socks and tries to pull his trouser legs down further, which fails epically, mainly because he’s forgotten he still holds a cup of tea in his hand. Which is now in his lap.

John grabs a clean towel from the kitchen and hands it to Grant, who gives him back the now-empty mug with a look of sheer horror on his face. “It’s fine, Grant, happens to the best of us,” John offers, flatly ignoring Sherlock’s snort. Grant mops himself up the best he can and returns the rag to John.

“Tell John about your socks, Mr. Monroe, he is a bit preoccupied with them today.”

John can hear Sherlock settling back in his chair as he stretches the towel over the edge of the sink to dry, knowing a back-handed compliment when he hears one. He grins, just a little, and tries not to think too hard about how he’s going to reward himself for that one.

“Yes, well, I rushed home and grabbed the first ones I could find.” Grant mutters, eyeing them closely.

“You were out walking, having just gotten home from work, and you weren’t wearing any socks?” John inquires.

“Good, John,” Sherlock murmurs.

“No! I mean, yes! When I stopped to sit down on the bench because my feet were hurting from walking in these,” he indicates his shoes by holding up a foot, “I took them off to rest a minute. When I saw the…the _thing_ …all I remembered to grab were my shoes. By the time I’d gotten home, I was in such a state, I grabbed Victor’s by mistake and pulled them on. I wasn’t really thinking about socks, and now I’ve bled in them, but you see, Mr. Holmes, I need some help.”

Grant seems to run out of steam.

Sherlock gains it. “You haven’t given us much information for someone who needs help, Mr. Monroe.”

Grant opens his mouth to reply, then closes it. John assumes the ‘sorry, we couldn’t help you, have a nice day’ position and his thoughts are already back on supper when Sherlock speaks again.

“Other than your husband withdrew money from your account, you were obviously so concerned that you decided to walk home in order to give yourself some time to think and possibly brace yourself for the fact that your home might be empty when you get there. Obviously you are not accustomed to walking long distances, other than from your office to the train station and train station to the taxi stand, then from the taxi into your house. You went a different way home, rather a silly thing I think, but since John is fond of fresh air as well, I understand what you were thinking. Now, you saw something at this empty cottage, you claim, a thing with just eyes and no face. As ridiculous as that statement is, I agree that you did see _something_ that frightened you bad enough that you ran home barefoot. I hope your husband, who was obviously home when you finally arrived, out of breath and sweating hard, along with all of your worldly possessions, save for your grandfathers’ pipe you keep in your pocket to play with because you don’t smoke anymore, the tobacco I found on the steps was old and almost beyond identification, I say _almost_ , yet you keep it in your pocket because you are quite a nervous man, Mr. Monroe-Trevor, and when something is out of your control, even more so. We will take your case, Mr. Monroe, mostly because I am bored to death and John expects me to get _fresh air_ and it sounds intriguing.”

Sherlock finally takes a breath. Grant is gaping at him with his mouth hanging open like a fish.

“Don’t say anything.” John warns under his breath.

“So, you may leave now Mr. Monroe-Trevor, and we will see you at your house about lunch time tomorrow. You’ve already cleared your calendar for the day, so I believe you’ll be home. Good day.”

And just like that, Sherlock shuts up. John’s used to it, mostly, but poor Grant is completely flummoxed. Sounds that are nothing like words come out of his mouth. John courteously helps him up and gets him across the floor. Before he steps over the threshold, however, he turns around and asks, “I guess I don’t need to tell you where I live, then?”

John practically laughs. “No,” he answers before Sherlock gathers up steam again, “It’s fine, we will see you tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Grant tells him, grabbing his hand and pumping it hard. John sees him out.

Of course, supper gets forgotten because Sherlock is completely naked when John gets back. Not a sheet in sight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Breakfast?” he offers, standing up and looking at the house over his shoulder.  
> “Starving,” John quips.

**Four**

“John, wake up.” Sherlock shifts his shoulder, almost pushing John off of it as the cab slows to a stop. The sun has just begun peeking over the horizon and Sherlock is eager to get started. John, though? he thinks, not so much.

“Hmnhompumnop,” John explains, only drooling on Sherlock’s coat a little.

Sherlock frowns and shifts a bit harder this time, reaching for John’s wallet. He’s already taken it from John’s back pocket and handed the cabbie a few bills before John is fully conscious.

John blinks up at Sherlock as he’s pulled to his feet from the cab by the arm. “Nice meeting you here.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Really, John, you should have gone to bed much sooner, then you would be more alert this morning.”

“This isn’t morning,” John grouses, rubbing at his eyes, then blinking at the sunrise. “That’s morning,” he states with a jaw-cracking yawn and points helpfully at the horizon.

Sherlock chuckles, tries to hide it and actually only succeeds in amusing his half-conscious partner. “Yes, John, and it’s on its way here. Come on.”

John shakes his head, awake enough now to cope. He looks around them, at the trees and the neatly trimmed grass growing along the gravelly lane. Up ahead he can make out where the road splits to the left; that’s where the cottage in question is located. If they were to pass the turn-off, they would head straight to Grant and Victor’s house, then beyond that, the Bee and Rose, a quaint but well-known bed and breakfast in this area.

Movement beside him draws his attention to Sherlock, who is kneeling down peering at the gravel beneath their feet. “What?” John starts, knowing that if the detective stays that way too long he’s going to be complaining about dirt on the hem of his coat.

Sherlock holds up a hand, then drops it just as quickly. “I’ll admit my first theory is wrong. Had anything been dragged along the ground here,” he points at a spot in front of them, “or here,” he says, pointing a few feet ahead, “even if this were a heavily trafficked area, there would still be some evidence. There’s nothing.” He stands gracefully, shoving his hands down in his pockets, turning on his heels and flaring the tails of his coat out at the same time.

They head down the lane and follow the edge of the field for a few moments; John finds himself watching Sherlock’s shoes.

“Why doesn’t the gravel bother you in those? They are thinner than the pair Mr. Munroe had on yesterday.”

Sherlock, distracted, only gives John a cursory answer. “Worn,” he says.

Since that answer makes no sense, John leaves it. They walk without conversation for a few moments until they are standing in front of the cottage Grant described to them. John runs his hand over the back of the carved bench as they pass it, both men moving straight up to the front door as if they’re regular visitors and not complete strangers here.

Sherlock tugs on the knob, making a little exclamation of surprise when it swings open. He freezes on the spot, using his arm to bar John’s way into the large, empty room they are staring into. The only thing that moves is some stirred-up dust slowly drifting in the weak rays of the sunlight pouring in through the uncovered windows.

“Look,” Sherlock nods towards the floor. A layer of dust covers the wood, though it has been stirred up by footprints.

John studies the tracks for a moment. There are at least three sets as far as he can tell. Two large sets, such as adult males or females with particularly large feet, and a much smaller set. A child? He inhales, but before he gets a word out, Sherlock’s rumbly baritone breaks through the silence of the house from the other side of the room.

“Very good, John.”

John smiles despite his irritation with the interruption. “They’re gone, then?” he asks.

Sherlock nods, his eyes scanning the room. “Let’s take a look anyway.” He strides out, skirting the clearest footprints.

All in all, it takes the two of them fifteen minutes to check out the entire house, only to find that it is very empty. No furniture at all, even in the attic, which seems to have not seen any activity in so long that the dust bunnies are working on their fiftieth generation. John lowers the trap door slowly, sneezing as he drops back to the hallway floor. He wipes his palms on his jeans and knocks the dust off his shoulders.

“That’s why you are always so clean,” he grumbles, sneezing again. “I’m your lackey.” He notices that something about Sherlock’s expression is off. The detective is leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, one leg angled so that his foot is flat against the faded old paper, and a frown on his face so severe there’s a deeply etched line at the top of his nose.

Instead of explain what he’s thinking, however, he merely drops his foot to the floor with a loud thud and tells John, “Let’s try something.”

John scowls, not looking forward to rolling about in anymore dust at the moment. “I’m not a chinchilla, Sherlock.”

“What?” Sherlock asks, his expression now blank.

John shakes his head, waving a hand between them, “Never mind.”

“I need to see something. Go sit on the bench, but leave the door open. Tell me when you can see me.”

John nods, glad to be able to go out into the sunny morning. He sits down on the bench with his legs straight out so he can see the front windows of the house. It doesn’t take him long before he can see Sherlock beyond the glass, half in shadow and half in the light from the open door, so he waves. Sherlock nods, disappears for a moment. The front door closes and the detective re-appears in the window where he was the first time. John waves again. Sherlock nods.

“Well?” John asks as Sherlock drops down beside him on the bench.

Sherlock sighs dramatically and fusses with his coat. “I don’t like this.”

“Seriously, Sherlock? This is right up your alley.” John grins. He moves around so that he’s right next to his partner, their legs pressed up against one another.

Sherlock stares at John for a moment, John knowing full well the detective’s mind is off on another plane of existence. When he blinks and his eyes soften, John smiles. Sherlock grips John’s knee then pats his thigh.

“Breakfast?” he offers, standing up and looking at the house over his shoulder.

“Starving,” John quips.

 

Victor Trevor-Monroe watches Sherlock and John walk away from his vantage point where he’s mostly hidden in the dark shadows of the tiny lean-to shed behind the empty cottage down the lane from where he lives with his husband, Grant. He’s a tall man, partially stooped over to avoid hitting his head against the low roof of the lean-to. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with a trembling hand and sighs. The Great Detective, of course Victor knows who he is. Naturally, Grant would go to the best when it comes to a personal dilemma.

Victor hates that he lied to his husband about the money, but his business that occurred long before Grant came into his life is exactly that, his own. He knows they’re lying to him and he’s hoping that once they are paid off, they’ll be gone and that will be the last of it. Watching carefully until the detective and his side-kick are out of sight, he stops himself mid-thought; no, that’s no side-kick, Victor thinks. Just in the few moments he’s been observing them, he could clearly see two cogs in a well-oiled machine.

Well. Victor pushes himself away from the wall and through the creaky door of the shed. He claps his hands together in order to get the dust and grime off of them, then pats the pocket of his camel colored coat where he’s stashed the large wad of money. Sighing, he adjusts his red tie and looks down to be sure the rest of his clothes are spotless. Since they’re heading in the direction of Kevin’s place, Victor decides he’ll go back around the long way and meet them there. He knows full well he won’t be able to dupe the detective for long; perhaps, though, if he can get his side of the story in first, just maybe he’ll be able to save himself and his marriage and be able to fix his mistake before anyone truly gets hurt.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John chuckles into his tea as Sherlock regales him with the story of an abusive circus owner, a man billed as the ‘littlest strong man’ who dressed ‘primitively’ and did part of his act with a blow gun, plus a lovely six-toed lady. John is absolutely enthralled by the tale and wondering how much of it was just Sherlock bullshitting him...

Kevin Rosenthall, the owner of the Bee and Rose, is a small man, about sixty-five years old. He has a shiny bald pate and a grey goatee, and in John’s estimation at least, he has to have been a boxer at some point in his life. The sleeves of Kevin’s faintly-striped button down are rolled up over bulging forearms, showcasing quite the collection of tattoos. He is talking to Sherlock at the counter while John tries not to seem like he’s snooping overly much.

John was absurdly delighted to find out that when he shook hands with the older man that Kevin’s head comes to John’s shoulder. Next to Sherlock, the man looks like a dwarf. He’d smiled at him and John grinned back, amused by the pictures in his head. Sherlock narrows his eyes but doesn’t say anything.

“Come this way, boys,” Kevin says, ushering them into a deserted, but neat as a pin, dining room. The gold wedding band on his finger glints in the low light of the entryway. He swings open the gate that blocks the counter off from the rest of the entry room; John takes note of how he steps _down_ onto the floor.

Sherlock sees John looking at Kevin’s small, square feet in their leather lace-up boots and cocks an eyebrow at him. John shrugs as he takes a seat at the table Kevin has stopped at. He hands them both menus and informs them he’ll be right back, he wants to make sure the cook is back from break then asks if they’d like tea. With their agreement, he shuffles towards the kitchen.

“You have no cause to be amused,” Sherlock states blandly, folding his menu and setting it down on the table.

John copies him then covers his mouth with his hand.

“You are quite obsessed with shoes lately, John,” Sherlock drawls, lacing his fingers together on top of the menu, easily changing the subject.

John thinks about that for a moment. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything else, but does re-cock his eyebrow in a signal John knows means _well? Show me what you’ve learned._

John can feel his ears burning now. He should be used to being put on the spot by now, even after everything, but sometimes it is a bit startling when Sherlock shuts up and lets him take the reins of a horse named Deduction.

“Alright, I’m going to be wrong, but what the hell,” John drops his eyes to the table and fiddles with the corner of his menu. “The footprints on the floor in that big empty room—none of them matched the shoes Grant was wearing yesterday.”

“Yep,” Sherlock agrees, popping the ‘p’ with his lips; he tilts his head to the side like a begging puppy. “That is important, why?”

John keeps his eyes on the menu; he shakes his head. “Other than it proves Grant never went into the house, I can’t think of another reason.”

“That’s good, John. If he did not go into the house to investigate, that means he was completely honest with us yesterday.”

“Right. But you already knew that.” John chances a glance upward.

Sherlock is watching him intently, easily moving into that interesting place in their relationship where he’s the teacher and John the pupil. “I did. Now you know it.”

John frowns, only slightly annoyed with the cryptic Holmes-ness. Before he can add anything else, however, they are interrupted by Kevin enquiring as to what they’d like to order.

Sherlock asks what the special of the day is, Kevin laughs and says he’ll think of something. The old man heads back to the kitchen with a loud, “Ruthie! Whip up something special, we’ve got guests!”

John glances back towards the kitchen then up to Sherlock, who is wearing a smug grin that wouldn’t look out of place on a shark after a feeding frenzy. “Go on, then,” he says, finding a matching grin being plastered across his face.

“Kevin and Ruthie Rosenthall, they fell off a circus train about…”

John hisses between his teeth, sure that Sherlock’s being facetious. He’d rather not insult the proprietor of the establishment knowing there’s probably nowhere else to stay for miles.

“Aye, we did,” Kevin states, setting two plates on the table with an amused expression. “ ‘bout nineteen seventy-nine we did, anyway.”

John stares. First at his partner, then at his plate, then to Kevin and back to his plate because it’s got the largest, most plump and mouth-watering sausages and fried potatoes on it he’s ever seen in his life. He’s fairly certain that these gorgeous tomatoes aren’t tinned, either.

“Go on, lad, honestly. I like a man that appreciates a good meal,” an older woman wearing a bright pink scrub top and jeans with threadbare holes in the knees strides across the dining room, brandishing a tea towel like a sword. Tendrils of solid white hair that must have been ginger in her younger days have escaped from the neat bun on the top of her head to frame her face. She yanks out one of the other chairs at the table and sits down between the two men. “Kevin, tea?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Kevin states, sketching a slow bow at his wife. “Would the queen require any other services?”

“Oh go on, you old badger,” the woman shoos Kevin away with her towel. “I’m Ruthie,” she says, reaching out to pat Sherlock on the hand, “and you are Sherlock Holmes.” Ruthie turns towards John, who is tucking into his breakfast with gusto. “And you are Doctor Watson.”

John nods, his mouth too full to politely agree.

Ruthie chuckles. “I’ve also got a feelin’ you’re here for the Misters Monroe-Trevor. Grant was in here this morning bellyachin’. I swear, that’s all that man does. Lemme tell you something, both of you, I ain’t see a man as good lookin’ as Victor since…well, since Kevin about thirty years back. He’s as broad as the hull of a ship and the man’s got shoulders like Atlas. Only thing unusual about him is his blue eyes and the fact he must be in love with that stinkin’ cry baby Grant.”

During Ruthie’s little gossip session, Kevin has returned with the tea kettle and four mugs. He’s carrying the mugs by the handles, one on each finger of his left hand; he’s got the kettle by the handle in the right. Ruthie spreads a linen napkin on the table, folding it in half. Kevin sets the kettle on the table then pours.

Sherlock avidly watches the older couple as he cuts a slice of toast into four equal pieces; there’s nothing else on his plate except for two slices of bacon. John shrewdly watches Sherlock as he chews his way through several more bites, wondering if the detective had been here before despite the fact he said he hadn’t. Perhaps it was during…nope, John decides, no reason to think of that now. The Rosenthalls don’t seem to mind the silence, fixing their respective cups of tea and settling back in their chairs for what seems to be a long conversation.

John finally manages to clear his mouth long enough to sip at his tea. “I don’t even know where to start. Grant, Victor or the circus?”

Ruthie laughs, a pleasant, almost childlike sound, then pats John’s hand. “You don’t want to hear about the circus. Besides, this one’s probably got it all figured out already,” she says, pointing at Sherlock with her thumb.

Kevin leans back in his chair, starts to lift his feet towards the table, catches Ruthie’s expression and changes his mind mid-lift. “Grant’s not that much of a crybaby, though, more of a worry wart.”

“How do you mean?” Sherlock asks, pushing his plate away and settling one big palm around the mug of tea he hasn’t touched yet.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. He’s watcha call, a…” she trails off for a few seconds, searching for the right word, “…Type A personality. Which, really, considering he built his business up from scratch himself is really to be commended, but, he likes to complain about his accomplishments as if they don’t really mean anything.”

“Why would that be?” John queries.

Kevin shrugs and Ruthie answers. “He seems like the sort who would question whether the genie in the bottle was real rather than just making a wish and getting on with it.”

John can’t control the ridiculous grin that spreads over his own face. He regards Sherlock, noting the amused glint in the detective’s eyes, “Well, I can at least sympathize with that.”

Kevin snorts. Ruthie giggles, “Oh ho! I thought as much. I could tell, Doctor Watson, the second I laid my eyes on you two…” she trails off, still laughing.

“Oh, Ruthie, you can’t play matchmaker with these two.” Kevin grouses good-naturedly.

A little bell rings out merrily, causing Ruthie and Kevin to jump from their seats. Kevin nods at them before taking off for the front counter.

“I’ll leave the kettle, when you two are finished, just leave it there. After you go and talk to Grant and Victor, come on back and I’ll set you up for the night.”

“We aren’t planning…” John starts, but Ruthie isn’t the kind to take ‘no’ for an answer.

“See you both later!” she calls at, heading back towards the kitchen.

“How do you do it?” John asks Sherlock.

“Do what, John?”

“Charm people that way.”

“Charm them?” Sherlock asks, feigning ignorance of the word. 

John chuckles into his tea as Sherlock regales him with the story of an abusive circus owner, a man billed as the ‘littlest strong man’ who dressed ‘primitively’ and did part of his act with a blow gun, plus a lovely six-toed lady. John is absolutely enthralled by the tale and wondering how much of it was just Sherlock bullshitting him when they are approached by a well-built, well-dressed man in a long camel-colored coat.

Sherlock’s story cuts off abruptly as his eyes take in the newcomer, who seems to only be seeing the detective.

“Victor Trevor, I presume?” Sherlock asks, indicating the chair recently vacated by Ruthie. The man nods and takes the seat but doesn’t say anything until he looks at John.

John decides that Ruthie certainly told the truth, because how often do you see someone with smooth cocoa-colored skin and blue eyes the color of a sunny winter’s day?

Victor doesn’t offer his hand to either of them, merely takes them both in then says in a rumbly baritone John is sure is about fifteen octaves deeper than Sherlock’s, “You must be here about the money, Mr. Holmes.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m more like you than him,” Victor states, tilting his head in Sherlock’s direction.

**Six**

“I love Grant, Mr. Holmes, with my entire heart. I would never steal from him.” Victor is explaining in a no-nonsense manner when John is able to give the conversation his undivided attention.

For his part, Sherlock merely watches the newcomer; John knows this could go either way so he sits back and nurses another cup of tea in order to wait for whatever happens next.

Victor reaches into the pocket of his long coat and produces a large wad of cash which he lays down in the center of the table between them. The gold money clip binding it all together glints in the low light of the dining room. John frowns, Sherlock ignores it.

“You still have the money?” John asks, knowing it is a useless observation but unable to stop it.

“I had already planned on coming to you with my little dilemma. I hadn’t expected Grant to find out so quickly. I thought I had more time.”

Sherlock remains mute though John detects a slight narrowing of his eyes. Victor’s last sentence is certainly one of a long litany Sherlock has heard over and over through the years.

“Go on,” John urges.

Victor never takes his eyes off Sherlock, something John is quickly finding he doesn’t really care for too much. He sits up a little straighter in his chair, uncrossing his legs and planting his feet firmly on the floor beneath his chair.

Victor’s eyes fall to the money. “Mr. Holmes, I have a problem and I’m wondering if you would help me with it. That money is going to be spent one way or the other. I’d prefer it to go towards your fee.”

Now Sherlock does frown and John knows that expression well: Sherlock hates for anyone to assume that he only does what he does for money. Under the table, John rests one hand on Sherlock’s knee, bringing the detective’s attention towards him for a moment. Some of the tension leaves Sherlock’s shoulders and he nods.

“Interest me. You have ten seconds.” Sherlock makes a show of checking his watch.

Victor hesitates for the merest fraction of a second, then makes a snap decision to share what has evidently been rehearsed in his head many times. “I have several associates who claim to be in contact with someone I understood to be deceased prior to leaving the United States, Mr. Holmes. They want to use certain information about me to blackmail Grant.”

Not such a straightforward answer to John, though he can sense his partner has seen right through it. Victor taps his fingers against the tabletop.

“What are you hiding from your husband, Victor?” Sherlock asks, his voice pitched low, forcing Victor to actually lean forward a bit in order to hear him, thereby keeping control of the entire exchange. “Surely he knows about your military service, it’s as obvious to me as your Caribbean heritage.”

“I…” Victor tries, though something in Sherlock’s face stops him.

“You know who I am, do not lie to me.”

Victor leans back against his chair. The tapping stops as his fingers flutter over the table towards the money then he seems have second thoughts; he drops his hands into his lap and sighs, finally looking in John’s direction. His eyes light up for a moment that makes the doctor more than a little uncomfortable; almost as if he senses Victor seeking a kindred spirit.

“I’m more like you than him,” Victor states, tilting his head in Sherlock’s direction.

“I don’t follow.” John says honestly.

“I haven’t always been a one _man_ man, Doctor Watson.” Victor tells him, letting each letter of every word rest in the space between them.

“He’s saying he’s not one hundred percent gay, John.” Sherlock interrupts, the doctor’s name escaping his lips on a hiss of annoyance.

“Ah,” John intones, studying Victor a little closer now.

Sherlock sees the exact moment John catches up and rests his hand on John’s that hasn’t moved from his knee. “Go on.”

“Me?” John asks, his eyes darting towards Sherlock then back to Victor.

Sherlock nods.

“Alright, Victor, you are married to a self-made, rather well-to-do man. You are bisexual and come from the United States. Someone who knew you there wants to out an old secret that you weren’t aware _was_ a secret until now; apparently this person knows that your husband is well off.”

“Nice summary, John, now the facts.” Sherlock drawls, the slight curl of his upper lip betraying the stern tone. The yellow light shining down from the ceiling makes Sherlock’s hair that much darker.

“I can think of only two things, really,” John allows, forcing himself to keeps his hands to himself and _not_ in Sherlock’s perfectly coiffed mane, “either a wife or a child.”

Sherlock actually laughs out loud. Victor looks stunned; John feels a bit proud of himself.

“Why would you say that, John?” Sherlock asks, ignoring Victor for the moment; thrilled that his partner has finally been able to join in on the game. He can’t wait to pull one over on Mycroft, though the doctor may still have to practice to be _that_ good, this is certainly progress in the right direction.

“Sentiment, Sherlock.” John answers firmly.

Sherlock nods. “Agreed. Your wife was in contact with some unsavory types, then?”

“Actually, to be honest, I’m not entirely sure. Though we were married two years, Ellie was a very independent woman. I was active duty during the majority of those two years; she was alone most of the time, often for months. She was an amazing person, truly, taking care of everything while I was gone—the house, the finances…just, everything. Then she was just gone…” Victor’s deep voice goes soft and he idly picks at a random thread on his tailored chinos.

“You weren’t aware of her passing?” John asks.

“Yes, I was…I was overseas. The Red Cross rushed me home, but it was already too late. The car crash…it was…just bad. Closed-casket funeral—her parents insisted. There had never been any love lost between myself and her folks, never.” Victor’s pale blue eyes are filled with pain and a regret he knows all soldiers feel at one time or another; some never get over that feeling.

A heavy silence falls about the otherwise empty dining room. Sherlock measures it, then announces, “We will take your case, Victor. I expect you and Grant together here this evening. For now, good day. John.”

Sherlock stands, pushes his chair in and strides towards the entryway. John offers his hand to Victor who shakes it and leaves the dining room without another word.

 

 

“John, if you don’t take your clothes off this minute, I do believe I am going to die.” Sherlock announces suddenly into the daytime hush of their room.

“We’re in the middle of a case,” John grins from behind the book he has taken from his overnight bag. He will never call what he does after dropping his bag back to the floor a ‘butt wiggle,’ though it sure is fun because he can see Sherlock’s nostrils flare out of the corner of his eye.

Sherlock huffs. “Don’t care. Clothes off.” The detective is unsure how to say _I want to make you forget anyone who came before me,_ so he simply orders John to do what he wants.

Naturally, John thinks it’s all hilarious, so instead of stripping, he strides over to a rather ugly mauve upholstered wing chair, rests his feet on the low table in front of the matching ugly mauve flowered print sofa and opens his book.

Sherlock stares, only somewhat taken aback by John’s cheek. He waits until John actually begins reading, drops to all fours and proceeds to crawl towards the chair, only stopping after he’s half-limbo’ed under one of John’s legs in order to rest his chin on John’s thigh. His half-unbuttoned shirt catches on John’s jeans and pulls tighter across his chest.

Faking inattention like a Jedi Master, John casually licks an index finger and slowly turns the page.

“John,” Sherlock drawls, nonchalantly taking a deep sniff.

John giggles, his fingers oh-so-casually twisting into the tight curls on Sherlock’s crown. Sherlock sighs like a man who’s been denied the necessities of life for entirely too long, in particular his favorite bits of his favorite person.

“Johnnnn,” Sherlock murmurs whilst rubbing his cheek over John’s inseam.

John decides pretending to read an upside-down book is pointless and drops it to the floor. He grins down at Sherlock who is quickly unzipping his fly now that the doctor’s full attention is on the detective. Long fingers deftly wind their way through two layers of fabric and denim-clad hips buck gently upwards into those dexterous digits.

“Damn,” John hums, “Alright, we are not in the middle of a case.”

“Don’t care, John.” Sherlock whispers, slowly slithering his way into John’s lap somehow without losing his grip or a stroke. He starts in on the side of John’s neck, warm, squirmy tongue lapping at the skin beneath John’s ridiculous starched collar.

John rests the back of his head against the chair, giving up on any attempt to reciprocate, because when Sherlock is like _this,_ it is better to let him get it out of his system. A particularly fierce squeeze causes John to gasp and bite his tongue right before that warm, squirmy detective tongue squirms right into John’s ear canal and a voice as deep as melted chocolate mutters a word that sounds amazingly like ‘mine,’ but John feels like he’s in no place to question. Carefully twisting his arm in order that his hand can palm Sherlock’s crotch, his efforts are only met with a growl. The doctor awkwardly removes his hand again, allowing Sherlock to settle back into his great-cat-like attention to John’s neck and earlobe.

This behavior from Sherlock always tears him in half: he wants to encourage it, yet at the same time he knows he shouldn’t. Not only is it exciting to be on the end of that intense focus, it is a bit thrilling to be so damned _wanted_ , especially by someone he truly believed incapable of such emotion, in the beginning anyway. More than the focus, however, is the way Sherlock is unafraid of _anything_ to do with intimacy—from these little kittenish tongue swipes to the way he’ll swallow…

“Gah!” John groans when those tongue swipes turn into little nips down the side of his jaw. “Sherlock, are you trying to kill me?” he asks, opening his eyes and grasping Sherlock’s shoulders with both hands, barely but effectively pushing him away for a moment.

“ _La petit mort, mon Coeur d’or,*_ ” Sherlock murmurs breathlessly.

John can’t help it, his jeans have to come off _yesterday._ “The French, Sherlock? Oh my god.”

Sherlock twists himself around until his lips are barely brushing a very hot, thoroughly into the proceeding part of John’s body.

“ _Tu me appartiens**._ ” Sherlock informs him before opening his mouth and swallowing him down, big hands sliding beneath and pushing his hips up towards that elegant tongue.

After that, there’s not much else to say for a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's French: *An orgasm, my golden heart; and **You belong to me.


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been rewritten twice. I can't take it anymore, so here it is in its imperfect state.

**Seven**

John can feel Sherlock’s boredom from across the room; it emanates from him the way heat radiates through the flat when the oven is turned up full blast and the door to it is wide open. The detective is pacing beside the bed—four long strides up and four long strides back. John rolls over onto his back and cracks one eye open, trying hard not to think about the oven door left open at the flat. He makes a quick mental note to send a text to Mrs. Hudson as soon as possible. Internally shrugging, he reminds himself it has been almost twenty-four hours since they’ve been home.

“What are you on about?”

Sherlock pauses for a fraction of an instant, then continues. One-two-three-four.

“If you don’t stop, I’m going to teach you to march.” John mutters, covering his eyes with his hand. As annoying as the pacing is, he has to admire Sherlock’s cadence.

Another pause. “Would you wear your uniform? Will you get me one?”

John snorts and rolls his eyes beneath his palm. “Military kink,” he mutters.

Apparently Sherlock doesn’t hear or chooses to ignore it, because he’s back to pacing again, long strides making nothing of the length of the room. John sits up against the headboard with a yawn then crosses his legs at the ankle to watch his partner pace.

“John, I need to admit something.” Sherlock says when he is facing the opposite direction.

“Okay.”

“I’ve made a mistake with this case.” The detective says this so quietly John almost has to strain to hear him.

“Why do you say that?” he asks, frowning in an attempt to hide the sheer expression of wonder he knows has just been painted across his face.

Sherlock spins on his heel and drops roughly down on the bed beside John. He copies John’s pose and sighs. “Victor is certainly hiding something, of that I have no doubt.”

John knows better to answer when Sherlock’s jaw snaps shut with such finality after a statement like that, so he’s actually a bit glad when someone raps sharply on the door of their suite. On the other hand, he’s also a bit sad because that knock means he’s got to drag his clothes back on. He calls out, “One minute,” and yanks his jeans up then grabs Sherlock’s trousers off the floor and flings them to him. They hit the detective in the back with a thwack. “Loo,” he orders with a grin, pointing at the door to the bathroom and taking the time to admire the sight before him as his detective flirtily sashays over the threshold.

*

A little later, John and Sherlock stand at the backdoor of the empty house down the lane from the Monroe-Trevors. Last night’s meeting with the two men was pretty much a bust, at least in John’s opinion. Grant had shown up late and Victor hadn’t shown at all. Naturally, Sherlock decided it was time to take matters into their own hands.

Once Sherlock gets the door unlocked—at least that much has changed, because last time they were here, everything was wide open—he steps up to the threshold and turns towards John. The wooden door creaks on its hinges as Sherlock grabs it to keep it from banging against the side of the house.

“Coming?”

John nods affirmatively, taking one last look around them to be sure that they are truly alone, shifting his feet enough to feel the gun at his back. Satisfied that no one followed them from the bed and breakfast into the growing twilight, he follows Sherlock into the house. Not much has changed in twenty-four hours, except that some of the grime that decorated the floors earlier has disappeared. The dying sun slants across the empty place, showcasing the dust motes they’ve kicked up by opening the back door.

Sherlock points it out wordlessly then gestures towards the rooms in the back. Upon opening doors, they discover the rooms are still empty and haven’t been touched.

They’ve started back towards the door when Sherlock grips John’s shoulder and holds his finger to his lips. John frowns, knowing well enough not to say anything-not yet. Sherlock raises both hands towards the ceiling and tilts his head towards John. He’s wearing a curious expression that tells John all he needs to know: the detective heard movement above them.

John tilts his chin curtly and checks that his gun is tucked in the waistband of his jeans. Sherlock holds up three fingers and reaches up to grab the ladder for the attic. Silently they count to three and he yanks on it. The ladder crashes open and there’s a muffled sound from upstairs. Sherlock starts to climb up then John jerks him out of the way and climbs up the three steps quickly, gun held out in front of him.

It is much darker up here than in the house, though a bit of light peeks through a tiny, grimy round window to John’s left. Enough sun is still available to show him the single figure huddled on the floor. In an instant, Sherlock is by his side, pulling the person out of the deepest shadows. The person appears to be no immediate threat, so John tucks his weapon away.

“Just rip it off, Sherlock,” he says, gesturing towards the silver tape wound ‘round the person’s mouth.

“Alright,” Sherlock agrees. There’s a ripping sound and a pained moan.

John winces in sympathy and goes for the tape around the hands and legs, helped by a pocket knife produced from one of Sherlock’s pockets. In a matter of seconds, John has the person on his feet. He leans his tall frame against John’s smaller one and breathes heavily.

“How long have you been up here, Victor?” Sherlock asks from where he’s stepped over to look out the window.

“They grabbed me right after I talked to you.” He groans, “I think they hit me in the back of the head. It’s killing me.”

“Here, sit down,” John offers.

Victor shakes his head. “I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.”

It takes John a moment to realize that he wouldn’t want to hang around in a dusty old attic much longer than he needed to, either, much less one where he’d been imprisoned for a day and a half.

They slowly make their way down the ladder and out the front door. John helps Victor settle on the bench in front of the house while Sherlock moves a few steps away and sends a text on his phone. He decides not to worry about it too much in lieu of ensuring Victor is alright, though it is already obvious that the man is in shock.

“What happened to you?” John queries, gently lifting one of Victor’s eyelids in turn to check his pupils. “You don’t seem to have a concussion, though you did say they hit you in the head?”

“Yes,” Victor whispers, one hand coming up to probe at the back of his skull. He winces and sucks in a pained breath through clenched teeth.

“Let me see that,” John orders, standing up and moving behind the bench to get a better look—or as best he can in the almost-darkness.

Sherlock steps out of the darkness to raise his phone above where John is trying to check for injuries. John thanks him and is able to make out a single small laceration. There’s quite a bit of bruising, but the wound is clean and already scabbed over. Probably wasn’t even enough to knock the tall man out, but there is no doubt it hurts like the dickens.

“I think you’ll be alright, it’s too late to try and do much more than clean it, which I’ll do as soon as we get back to the…”

John’s words are cut off as a black cab pulls up on the road in front of them. John offers his hand to help Victor from the bench, but he ignores it. John shrugs and catches up with Sherlock who is already climbing into the back seat. Victor follows a few moments later then settles down with a sigh. He leans his head back and closes his eyes, not speaking again until they pull up in front of the bed and breakfast.

“Mr. Holmes, you’ve got to help me. I know Grant came to you first, but they took her.”

Sherlock says nothing, opens the door and strides towards the inn, then stops and waits for John by the door.

Victor stays in the cab, unsure.

“Go home, Victor. Explain to your husband what happened to you. We will see the two of you in the morning.” Sherlock orders calmly, despite the stricken expression on Victor’s face.

“John,” the detective says as he sweeps through the door his partner has just opened for him.

John decides that he’s in for a long night so he stops at the front counter and requests a pot of coffee to be delivered to their room.


	8. Chapter 8

**Eight**

A loud crack of sound forces its way through the heavy shadows that wander listlessly down the lane from the bed and breakfast a few hours before the sun decides to peep over the horizon. It is not a gunshot; close enough though that John’s body reacts and he flies upward from his former prone position, heart thumping, head and hands at the ready to protect his mate from any danger.

When he realizes that it is nothing, he falls heavily to his backside and forces himself to breathe slowly in an attempt to collect his racing heart. _One…two…three…_

“John,” comes a low drawl from beneath the covers, breaking into his inhale/exhale counting.

When John looks down, the only thing he can see on the pillow is a messy mop of curls. The state he’s in right now, however, he doesn’t trust himself to touch.

“John it’s fine, it’s all fine,” Sherlock mutters.

It’s not that John disagrees with him, it’s just that he’s more than ready to either run, fuck or fight, so he clamps his mouth shut in an effort to not wake the detective from his much-needed rest any further.

A long arm snakes out from the blankets and violinist’s fingers grasp his thigh. John’s got no choice other than to follow the demanding digits unless he wants his femoris muscle peeled off bit by bit. After a short while of suffering the gripping fingers he takes a deep breath and slides into the warmth, turning on his side so that he can press his chest against Sherlock’s naked back. He rests his right hand on Sherlock’s lean hip and sighs into the long neck in front of him that is just begging to be licked and since he’s probably not going back to sleep tonight…no, make that this morning, he thinks as he raises his head up enough to see the clock on the bedside table, might as well find a relaxing way to pass the time.

When he succeeds in coaxing a deep, burry purr from Sherlock’s chest, he decides that enough is enough. With a bit of pressure, he quickly has Sherlock on his back, John balanced over him on both hands. He goes ahead and takes a taste of the skin on Sherlock’s neck, gradually working from little kitten licks to nibbles.

Beneath him, Sherlock sighs and rolls his hips, a teasing movement that threatens to send John right over the edge. Growling, he captures the detective’s lips in his own, coaxing them open. Sherlock pulls back some and John stops for a moment to just _look_. Green eyes are hazy jades in the small bit of light from the window, even so, they anchor him and remind him what is real: the warm bare skin beneath him, the heartbeat he can feel through his own chest and the hands now clutching his arse and pushing downward as Sherlock thrusts up into the heat between them.

John decides he doesn’t want to think anymore, not about the case or about useless dreams, so when Sherlock flips him in turn, he concentrates with all that he is on the tension and pleasure they slowly wring from each other.

*

“Bloody hell,” John states in a bland voice that actually sounds much less so than he feels.

From where he stands opposite his partner, Sherlock nods his agreement as he reaches out to run his hand down the center of the now split in half bench seat. All three pieces of wood are cracked down the center, the lumber splintered into thousands of bits. As always, though, John can see clearly that Sherlock’s onto some detail about it that makes it more than it seems.

“An axe,” Sherlock quips as he kneels down, balancing himself of the balls of his feet and gently probing the front edge of the seat with his index finger. “Started off with a clean cut, but the blade was dull and nicked, so it stuck here,” he points, showing the spot to John, “…and caused this.” He steps back, gesturing towards the rather vicious-looking wound.

John is more than accustomed to Sherlock and his skills so he agrees. “Still took some serious strength to crack through the hard wood.”

“Indeed, John.”

“What for?” John queries.

Sherlock looks over at him, shrugs then frowns. Before he gets the chance to say anything else, however, both men find their attention pulled to the house when another glass-shattering crack cuts clearly across the deserted yard. John is just beginning to consider the source of the sound, but, true to his inquisitive nature, Sherlock is already moving towards it.

“Sherlock…” John starts, then shakes his head and follows the detective around to the back of the house.

Both of them pull up short in order to stare at the rather huge, bulging man standing in the middle of a pile of glass from the back door window. He raises an axe one more time, massive biceps straining against the weight of what is obviously an antique tool and smashes through what was left of the window frame. With this hit, the old door cracks down the middle, staying together enough to remain on its hinges.

“He’s not in there,” Sherlock quips as if speaking to someone who can neither hear nor understand English.

John’s never felt so much like smacking him in the back of the head before. If he could reach it, that is.

When the giant slowly turns towards them, John lets out a sigh as the axe drops to the ground with a heavy thud. Somehow he even feels a bit luckier when the handle snaps like a twig and the business end of the thing falls beside it. Surely no one would just pick up a worn out yet apparently useful enough axe head over the handle that has a much longer reach?

John sees Sherlock roll his eyes from the corner of his own and grinds his teeth. The detective is wearing that _I’m so cocky_ expression so John just goes right ahead and braces for getting run over by at least three hundred pounds of angry, bulgy giant. He never stops to wonder why it is that his life never passes by his eyes in moments like these.

“Who’re you?” Asks the broad-shoulder Wall man.

“An interested party,” Sherlock answers dismissively.

“Yeah? Well, get in line. I get ‘im first,” the giant grumbles as he yanks the back door off its hinges with one hand.

 _He just yanked the door off its hinges with one hand_ , thinks John. Loudly.

Sherlock raises the eyebrow on the side nearest to John and steps closer to the Incredible Hulking Angryman.

“What has Victor done to you?”

John hasn’t quite perfected the eye-roll but he’s sure trying. He decides that not moving is probably his best bet, so he stays there, his knees slightly bent and his brain double- and triple-checking that he remembered his gun.

“Victor, who’s Victor?” Bald and Bulgy growls, looking over his roughly-the-size-of-a-barge-shoulder.

Sherlock actually takes a step back this time. John checks the expression on his face and is quite surprised to see the questions all but written there. He tilts his head but Sherlock’s already looking inward and doesn’t see it. After a few moments of being uncomfortably watched by Jolly Not-Green, Sherlock’s eyes snap open wide.

“Oh,” he whispers.

The giant is not impressed.

“You are here for Grant, I suppose,” Sherlock drawls as if it was obvious to him all along.

John knows better.

“You mean Mr. Monroe? Yep, owes my boss quite a basket of quid.” The giant rumbles as he reaches behind himself to idly scratch at the back of his neck.

“We can help you, if you’ll just step away from the door…” Sherlock tries.

The giant, sensing that a quarry of some type is about to get away, steps in front of the door and crosses his ship’s mast arms and widens his stance on tree-trunk legs that John is sure end in feet so large he’s had to have his shoes made special order. The big man’s T-shirt tightens across his chest and he grins mischievously at both of them.

“Sherlock…” John attempts, really wanting to walk away from this one with at least two though preferably all four limbs intact.

“John,” Sherlock answers, “One…Two…Three…”

John frowns at his partner, wondering if he’s finally gone the rest of the way off the deep end. “What the…”

Really, though, when the giant face plants on the ground John realizes what has been happening.

“On the roof, John, hurry!” Sherlock shouts, pointing at the roof of the house where a much-smaller and much less clothed man is running away from them.

John takes to his heels only after stopping and checking the big man’s pulse. He pulls an odd feathered dart out of his neck and drops it to the ground then heads around the far side of the house where they’d spotted a ladder the last time they were here, John thinking that this case just seems to be getting weirder and weirder by the second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never read a whole bunch of the original stories in one day. Just don't do it! Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to everyone :)


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